Page 9 of Two for Joy

“Audrey…” Holly looked behind Romeo to Fred, then Paul. “Number two—

“Ah, yes, number two.”

Holly narrowed her eyes. “Does dehumanizing them make you feel less guilt?”

“I don’t feel guilt, and I’m not dehumanizing them.”

“Referring to them only as numbers, the numbers you gave them.”

“It’s how I remember them.”

Romeo stared at her through the protective barrier. She scrunched her brow, making it twitch. Something he’d said had upset her, but he didn’t care. She asked him questions, and he answered, it wasn’t his fault if she got disappointed by what he said.

“You said killing them felt pleasurable, powerful?”

“That’s right—”

“Sexual?”

Romeo frowned. “Why does everything lead back to sex?”

“Did you find murdering your victims arousing?”

“No.”

“Good, that’s good.”

“Is that for your article, or your own personal interest in me?”

“The article. Of course, it’s for the article … something our readers will want to know.”

“For the record, I enjoy sex as sex, and I enjoy it with some people more than others…”

Holly couldn’t look him in the eye and was blushing more than Chad ever did.

Holly had a crush on him.

Understandable when he looked the way he did, and entertaining to watch the battle go on in her head.

The infatuation vs. disgust at his crime.

He was playing a game with her, just like he’d played one with Chad. It was entertaining, and stuck in a high security prison, he needed all the entertainment he could get.

****

Romeo lay in his bed and stared into the corner of his cell. A spider lurked, its long spindly legs twitched. He watched the spider move across the wall, slipping every so often, then finding its feet.

He’d told Chad the first thing he’d killed had been the magpie’s chicks before they’d even hatched. They were his first conscious kill—the first time he decided to kill knowing full well the implications—but his first victims had been spiders.

His first murder was also his first childhood memory.

Romeo’s mother had screamed and ran across the room when she saw it scurrying out from the sofa. He didn’t understand her fear, nor did it grow in him seeing his mother react so strongly. He felt nothing towards the spider. He slapped his hand down on top of it, killing it instantly.

His mother thanked him for doing it, and he did so again, and again, and he enjoyed squishing them and leaving a smear. It was his first artwork for his mother, not pinned to the fridge, but smudged on the wall or floor.

She was always so grateful, would ruffle his hair, and give him a relieved smile.

His mother thought he was doing it for her, but he wasn’t. It felt good to squish them, to stop them moving for good, killing them had felt good, more than good, it feltright.

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